


providence

by ifyouresure



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Based on 3x07 promo, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6145672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifyouresure/pseuds/ifyouresure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, the way Clarke says ‘maybe someday’ sounds a lot like <i>eventually</i> and <i>never</i> all at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	providence

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the promo for 3x07.

Somehow, the way Clarke says ‘maybe someday’ sounds a lot like  _eventually_  and  _never_  all at once.

This is what Lexa thinks, as she stands in front of Clarke, a foot of space between them. One step, and they would be toe to toe, chest to chest—the same as they have been from the start. One step, and there would be no space between them at all.

One step, and all the world would still stand between them.

Standing in the light streaming through the windows in her tower, Clarke looks a little like the archangels in Lexa’s dreams, come to take her away from this life. It’s a lie, of course; nearly all of her new dreams are.

Lexa’s spirit is destined for the ground, fated to choose a new commander after her death and the death of every commander that follows. For what reason the commanders before her are showing her visions of an impossible reality now, Lexa doesn’t know. It’s a cruel joke, a beautiful fantasy; she isn’t sure which is worse: being ripped away from that bitter-sweet paradise, or being woken up by a different kind.

This Clarke’s face sits half in shadow, her skin golden where the light hits it and burnt brown where it doesn’t. In the sunlight, her eyelashes glow white like little feathers, light and delicate, but her eyes are heavy behind them. Lexa forgets whether the lines on Clarke’s forehead were always that deep, the skin under her eyes always that dark.

(Sometimes, Lexa imagines the charcoal war paint has left lasting marks on her skin. Imagines that, when she sweeps her hands across her cheeks, they come away black and red every time.)

“Maybe someday,” Clarke says, “you and I will owe nothing more to our people.”

Lexa entertains the idea for a moment. That someday in the future, they don’t have people to lead, people they owe themselves to. That there are no battles to be waged, no children to be taught in the ways of war. Lexa would show Clarke Polis the way she had wanted to from the beginning, show Clarke her people and their culture and show her what life could be like with her, and they would pretend that Clarke hadn’t already seen it all before. Lexa would translate her people’s words and sayings for her, and they would teach her people together.

And when the day was over, Lexa would take Clarke by the hand, lead her into her room. She would push Clarke back into her bed, press her mouth to Clarke’s the way it should have been. As the sun set on her city— _their_  city—Lexa would peel Clarke’s clothes away slowly, worship every inch of her body, every piece of her soul, and she would make love to her until the candles burned low and the night was old. The way it should have been.

A cool breeze enters the room, and the light dims for an instant. The flickering candle light throws the cut on Clarke’s forehead into stark relief, and it serves only as a reminder of who they are and what they have to do. Of what happened the last time Lexa loved someone and let that love destroy her.

 _Maybe someday_.

Lexa smiles a little. It’s a beautiful thought, if not a realistic one.

And because it is Clarke, because she knows Lexa, because  _they are who they are_ , Clarke smiles a little, too, and for a moment, they think their beautiful thoughts.


End file.
